


slow dancing in the dark

by snaxarba



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Attempt at Humor, Awkwardness, Baby Teddy Lupin, Confused Harry, Denial, Depression, Feelings, Fluff, Harry's body struggles to keep him alive, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Pining, Possible Philosophical Debates and Contemplations, Protective Draco Malfoy, Sick Harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-07-29 00:12:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16252658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snaxarba/pseuds/snaxarba
Summary: Dying, as it turns out, gives your body some negative consequences. The soul powers the body and the state of mind, but when that body is broken, your soul can still reside in the host shell but the physical state of the body won’t be very good.Imagine seeing a weakened Harry Potter — that wasn't something you saw very often. It was strange to Draco. But not as strange as the feelings that brewed inside of him.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying something new here. At first, I just wanted to do a cliche eighth-year fic, but I thought that it'd be nice if there was something to it as well. I mean, this is still a cliche eighth-year fic. I'm trying to improve my grammar and all that jazz. School is truly wearing me down *sweats*. Sorry if this isn't very good, I'm trying my best!
> 
> This fic could possibly be triggering as Harry is struggling to be "fine" but ultimately, it's never enough. He's confused most of the time, really. I'll be happy to hear your thoughts on this! The title was taken from the song "SLOW DANCING IN THE DARK" by Joji. I thought that because his title was all in caps, I'll do mine in all lower case. I know, I have lame humour.
> 
> Please enjoy!

**Prologue**

 

There is an evil in this world. Hatred, sickness, death and destruction. Harry reckons he’s seen those evils with his own two eyes. He’s seen death, he knows of hatred and sickness and all too familiar with destruction. He tries to not dwell in them.

Because there can be no good without evil. No life without death, no health without sickness, no love without hatred and no peace without destruction. He knows this because he’s seen them too. He’s seen love and life. Peace and health. Whether he’s experienced them or not doesn’t matter, because he’s seen them.

For now, though, he knows he hasn’t great health in him and barely living.

Dying turns out to give your body some negative consequences. The soul powers the body, the state of mind, but when that body is broken, your soul can still reside in the host shell but the physical state of the body won’t be very good.

In fact, Harry can barely breathe without the help of various healing spells and potions. His heart sometimes stutters under the pressure of simply walking and his blood flows sluggishly. What can you expect, really? His body had just  _ lost _ life and then is expected to work again in fine condition. Unlucky for Harry, it doesn’t work like that.

Then again, he’s lucky he was able to escape death like that. He has a good feeling about returning to Hogwarts for his final year, this year. He thinks it’s going to be the time where he’ll be able to really  _ live, _ even if his lungs begin to ache and he tires easily than he would have when he was younger.

He needs to be grateful for the luck he’s been given now, even if he only ended up like this because of a truly shit hand given to him by fate.

He sits on a small sofa, looking out the lawn of the Weasley’s house, and basking in the sunshine. He likes warm weather. He’s come to dislike the cold and snow. There are just a few more months before he goes back to Hogwarts. It makes him excited and very anxious -- nervous -- thinking about seeing the great castle he thinks of as a home again.

Teddy Lupin, son of Tonks and Remus, sleeps in his arms. He’s so small and fragile. Harry didn’t know a thing about kids, but he likes Teddy. He looked a bit odd when he first saw him, like a pink mole but now he inherits Remus’ skin and traces of Tonks’ face. He looks more like a human now. That’s a bit mean to say, ( _ Sorry Remus, Tonks, _ Harry apologised in his head) but it’s true. Babies are weird.

He wishes that Teddy still had his parents to love him and guide him when he’s older. But he can’t turn back the time, he knows the maximum capacity of Time Turners after Sirius died and he drowned in grief.

He wishes Sirius was still alive too. He wishes that Dobby had a better life after he was freed than being killed by Bellatrix. He wishes Fred still roamed the house with George because he hates seeing George avoid mirrors and hearing himself talk like the plague. He wishes that he had been quicker and saved everyone.

He wishes his parents were still alive, but he’s accepted that they’re dead a long time ago. He doesn’t know them, not really.

To be honest, he wishes for a lot of things that can’t be changed. He wishes he’d taken the train to nowhere and died on the forest floor. He doesn’t really like his life now, despite what he says. He gained and lost a lot. His own body is too broken to function and he can’t eat a proper meal without wanting to die. He hates this incessant feeling of keeping a sort of darkness that threatens to swallow him at bay. Constantly fighting in his head, even if the war is over.

He hears Ron shout for him:

“Harry! Come on! Mum’s made pavlova and I don’t think it’ll last!”

_ Be grateful, Harry, _ he thinks to himself, standing and lifting baby Teddy closer to his chest.  _ There are others who have it worse than you. _


	2. A Feeling

**A Feeling**

 

There are wild rumours that still continue to spread in all of Wizarding Britain. Rumours about a certain Chosen One who has secluded himself after the events of the war. It isn’t a novelty to have Harry Potter distance himself from the spotlight, but for some reason, these damned reporters thought it was most peculiar of him. It’s wildly irritating.

But the Prophet might be onto something.

By July thirty-first, half of Britain was ready to resume their education again. Draco had already sent an owl after three days of internal turmoil. He was a  _ Death Eater _ . Nobody would want him inside of the school. Hell, he brought those other Death Eaters in Hogwarts in the first place! He still has the mark that’s slowly fading from its vivid starkness against the paleness of his arm. He sometimes worries that the mark will never fade.

But Pansy, Blaise and Theo were going. Most of the Slytherins were going to redeem themselves. Those too weak and afraid to confront their mistakes weren’t thought to be fit for Slytherins, therefore, being a Slytherin at heart, they’re going to go to Hogwarts. To be brave and smart, to survive whatever obstacle is thrown at them.

Childish, he knows, but at least it keeps him going. It keeps  _ them _ going.

The prospect of going back to Hogwarts is more daunting than it is exciting, though he feels the niggling butterflies in his stomach. He wants to see where he started. He wants to see the memories of his carefree childhood once more, where all he could complain about was the way he’s expected to behave and stupid Gryffindors.

By July thirty-first, most of Britain is also celebrating. In bold headlines: 

_ Harry Potter, The Chosen One, Lives another Day! _

Potter’s sick, according to The Prophet, and is battling an illness -- a backlash from all the magic he’d used to defeat a Wizard as powerful as the Dark Lord, an article once said. He had his doubts, but it’s been confirmed by Potter’s closest friends that he’s just been a bit worn out lately. That’s no surprise but, loathe as he to admit it, Potter was stronger than the average Wizard and he didn’t doubt the boy would be fine.

He can’t hold a grudge against the almighty  _ saviour _ of the Wizarding World. Before Potter secluded himself (which wasn’t a big deal, these journalists are just idiots), he’s testified for Draco’s and Narcissa’s innocence if not Lucius. Well, Lucius was a lost cause anyway. There isn’t much Potter could’ve done.

So even if Draco wanted to hold a grudge, he can’t because he owes Potter. If not for the testimony, then also for the time where he saved Draco from the raging Fiendfyre in the Room of Requirements. It wasn’t as if there’s much to hate Potter for anyways, apart from the obvious. He just thinks Potter must be having a grand time with the Weasleys on hand and foot, complying to his every wish, pampering him while Draco’s on house arrest with his distant mother.

But that kind of thought just shows how little Draco knows about Harry Potter.

* * *

The sun shines brightly on Draco’s face. He’s become accustomed to leaving his curtains opened for the morning light to come in. It’s a reminder that he isn’t stuck in the cold, unforgiving darkness. Feeling the soft sheets beneath him, he had once again to thank any deities up above and Merlin and Morgana themselves for the privileged life he has been given. Much more than he deserves considering everything he’s done.

Today, however, is a very important day. It’s the first of September.

To him, Hogwarts feels like an eternity ago. It felt like a dream as if his life teasing others was just some content fairytale and the reality was just today. Today, where he would board the train again for his very last year. After he completes his NEWTs, he’s certain he could achieve anything he wanted. 

Money and status could do so much, and he isn’t dumb. Those combined could only have him hoping that more generous people would overlook the fact that he was a catalyst for the war and the invasion of Hogwarts. That he was a filthy Death Eater and had taken the mark knowing full well of what he was doing - what made him even sicker was the fact that he had once been  _ proud _ of his Dark Mark. He was such a foolish child.

He’s not a child anymore. He’ll take it in his own hand to carve a future for himself, even if it looks bleak. But nothing could ever be worse than facing a future with the Dark Lord. He pushes his covers away from himself, sitting up on the bed. These walls are large and grey. If these walls could talk, they’d tell you all the times Draco’s broken down. He regrets his decisions, but the past is the past. He can move forward from here.

“Tilly,” he calls out into the room.

Tilly has to be one of his most loyal house elves. She’s getting a bit old, but he’s always thought of her as a reliable… well, not a person. A reliable creature who he could always count on. She appears with a pop and bows down.

“Master Draco will be getting ready?”

“Yes. Make sure to prepare the suit I’ve told you the night before. Leave it near the bathroom sink.”

“Yes, Master.” Tilly bows once more and disappears.

Malfoy Manor, though grand and absolutely amazing, isn’t a place which Draco is very fond of at the moment. And he hates that his sanctuary has been reduced to a place of horrors by the Dark Lord and his grimy followers. Merlin, what were they thinking?

The taps on the bath turn on when Draco steps in, obviously already reading his intentions. The smell of the soap reminds him of his mother and lemons, fresh and clean. Bubbles rise up from the waters.

He sits in the bath, warm scented water submerging his body. It soothes the phantom pain on his skin and relaxes him, feeling the bubbles touch the back of his neck. It’s nice being back home, he thinks. Sure, the hallways give him some frightening nightmares and the ballroom sometimes suffocated him, but the bath is nice. His bedroom is nice too.

What would happen when he gets to King’s Cross, he wonders. He’ll meet his old friends, the station will be loud as always and there would be lots of people there. Or maybe there will be less of them. Pansy called him over the floo a week or so beforehand concerning news about her mother. Apparently, she really wanted Pansy to marry instead of going back to Hogwarts.

Draco could understand her reluctance for Hogwarts. She  _ did _ tell a Hall full of students to get Potter and hand him over to the Dark Lord, but her absolute refusal to become a simple trophy wife, estranged to her friends, made her decision. Either marriage or Hogwarts.

You’d think Pansy Parkinson, that bratty, nosy girl would love being someone’s trophy wife and lounging around in riches whilst plotting how to kill her current husband and reap the rewards. She’s rather hardheaded and has visions of becoming something greater than someone else’s last name. She wants to be powerful in her own standing. Draco admires that and doesn’t doubt she’ll do great things.

But the horrible mood she fire-called him in left plenty to be desired. She rants like a bull charging, throwing in colourful expletives and bitter anger. He’s glad that his parents aren’t forcing him like Pansy’s being forced to. But that’s most likely because Lucius couldn’t either way and his mother is in mourning stage. For the loss of her husband (he wasn’t dead, just fallen from grace and locked in Azkaban) and for the wounded pride.

Draco’s just glad he’s alive.

He finishes bathing, towelling himself off and the wind charms placed in the bathroom dried his hair. Tilly prepared the clothes on the marble counter. Of course, a Malfoy still has pride in himself. He needs to look the part, be presentable and somewhat respectable. He’s not going to abandon the Malfoy code over some stupid feud between madmen. 

The press of the suit fitted him, making him look more like a man and the bags under his eyes seems to have mellowed out for a bit. He’s used to seeing himself look feeble and gaunt but he wants to congratulate himself now because he looks rather handsome. Well, in his opinion anyways.

Going into the dining room, he spots his mother already awake; she’s sipping tea whilst reading a thick book, absorbed in her task. She reads more frequently nowadays. Most likely distracting her mind from the rubbles of their family name.

At times like this, his father would be sitting beside her, hand clasping her dainty ones. Narcissa would give Lucius a soft smile that he knows Lucius melts under. There’s something about his parents that Draco longs for, a connection that lives within them and a certain devotion. Underneath the pale sun, they both look like they stepped out from a fairytale. A Witch and a Wizard who loved each other for eternity.

But his mother looks more forlorn. A crease between her fine brows and her red mouth pursed in concentration, a hand laying on the table.

“Draco,” her mother says. She hands her book over to a house elf and straightens herself. 

“Good morning.”

“Good morning, come and sit.”

He usually sits opposite his mother, but he doesn’t like the distance between them. He’s already lost a father. As careless and selfish Lucius had been, Draco still loves him. He takes the seat next to his mother, placing a napkin over his lap.

“How are you feeling today? Well, I hope?”

“I feel fine,” Draco takes a long pull from his cup. Usually, his mother and father would disprove of such manners, but his mother hummed as she butters her crumpet. “How about you?”

“Better than last year,” she jokes. “You’re off to Hogwarts today… I must say that I didn’t see this coming. Then again, I didn’t foresee our home being invaded. Excited about school?”

His stomach churns. He’s not really excited anymore, everything’s swallowed by the consuming anxiety and nervousness pooling in his belly. He wants to go back, of course, he wants this little piece of childhood left, but he doesn’t want to face all the people there. Guilt is also a good word to describe how he’s feeling. It clenches his gut just thinking about all the faces he won’t see and will see.

But he keeps a brave face for his mother. “Of course. I’ll do my best with my NEWTs and hopefully, I’ll be able to be accepted into an apprenticeship somewhere.”

“It’s good that you have a plan. You’re strong, Draco.”

He ducks his head and pretends to savour fresh berries on his plate.

“Of course, if anything untoward happens in school, you must inform me. I won’t sit back to see you have a hard time during your last year.”

He almost chokes on a raspberry. “Yes, yes of course mother. I’ll write to you if anything exciting happens.”

She hums once more and proceeds to eat. His mother’s taking his father’s role, Draco realises. He never thought that she’ll come round, or if she will, it’d be much later on. But she’s taken it in stride.  _ It’s because I’ll be gone, _ Draco thinks. He’ll be gone and she’ll be left alone with the Manor and house elves to keep her company. It isn’t like she’s able to go anywhere seeing as she’s under house arrest.

“Finish your breakfast quickly, Draco. We don’t want to miss the train.”

“Yes, mother.”

* * *

The station is still loud and crowded despite his earlier musings of a less crowded King’s Cross. It’s lively in the station with kids he barely recognises, trunks being lugged into the train and people patting friends on the back. Draco’s own trunk was shrunk inside of his pocket.

“I only have ten more minutes before I’m expected back in the Manor, you know Draco.” his mother speaks to him softly, her hands on his arm. “I trust you’ll do well at school. You are a smart boy.”

“I can stay here for a moment longer. There’s no need to rush.”

She sighs deeply. “You’re truly growing up, aren’t you dragon? You’re becoming an adult.”

“Most kids do.”

“I remember the first time you were here. So small and short. You were so  _ eager _ to be sorted into Slytherin.”

Draco fought back an embarrassed blush. “Most kids would be excited. They’re just kids, not hard to entertain them.”

Just then the train hisses and the whistle blew. Everybody on the platform hurried to say their goodbyes and give out their last hug until school is over.

Narcissa smiles at him, patting his arm affectionately. “Yes, of course. Look at you all tall and mighty. Make this year count, alright?”

“I will,” he pecks her on the cheek. 

“Make sure you write to me.”

“Yes mother,” he yells over his shoulder.

The last thing he does is wave at her through the windows and see two Aurors lead his mother back to the Manor. Pansy and Blaise found him rooted to the spot and ushers him inside a compartment already with Theo. It feels kind of good to be back.

“Alright,” Pansy says, shutting the door. “I’m already tired of school and we haven’t even started yet.”

“We’ve  _ just _ gone on the train,” Theo’s brows shot up in an incredulous expression. “I haven’t even talked to anyone yet except say hello to you three.”

“Yes, well. I just got accosted by two stupid kids.”

“What did they do?” Draco knows that it’s inevitable that they’ll run into a hostile party. Most of Hogwarts is hostile territory after all.

Pansy huffs. “They said I’m a filthy Death Eater. Told me to go away and all that. Same old, same old.”

Pansy isn’t a Death Eater. She never got herself marked and usually distances herself away from the extreme ideologies that he once had. The only reason why she’s being put in the same light as Draco is because… well, she’s his friend. Anybody who associates themselves with Draco Malfoy is as good as a Death Eater even though it isn’t true.

He always beat himself up for being the cause of trouble to people who don’t deserve it. They’re just really good friends. Theo and Draco are the only people in their group who got marked. Blaise… you can’t even fault him, he’s so distant from the war that raged on and he easily took a side that opposed the cause of the Death Eaters simply because Blaise didn’t believe in having one man rule all. He isn’t as daft as Draco is.

“But you know, it wasn’t as bad as I thought it’d be. I thought someone would try to put a Langlock jinx on me or something. But no, just two students who didn’t know anything.”

“That’s because you did nothing wrong, Pansy,” Draco says. “I have a feeling I’ll be their prime target. You know, being more important than you and everything?”

“Ugh, you’re still such an overconfident ponce.”

“It’s in his blood, Pansy. Don’t fault him for his flaws.” Theo retorts.

The door to their compartment opens suddenly and secretly, Draco’s hand twitches to the pocket of his robes before he remembers that his wand is gone and he has restrictions on his newer one. That will prove to be a challenge if he’s not allowed so much as a Stinging-hex.

“I knew I could hear that snotty tone of a Malfoy.”

Draco is thoroughly offended but Daphne looks pleased every time she gets to insult him. Daphne and Millicent have decided to grace them with their company, both of them looking the same yet oddly different from their school years. Daphne cut her hair short -- extremely short. Once upon a time, she would have killed anyone who dared harm her precious locks. She prided in them but it seems things have changed. 

Millicent, on the other hand, looks completely different except for the steady brown of her eyes and the way she holds herself. She grew taller, probably almost as tall as Draco now, and she’s tied her hair at the nape of her neck, looking put together and tidy. Her lids had black charcoal on them and her lips are stained with deep purple tint. She’s like the Pansy that should’ve happened but Pansy had stopped caring about putting on cosmetics every since the stress of the war happened. Millicent looks as feminine as a woman can be.

“You look nice, Millie,” Theo comments and earns a blush. 

“Thanks,” she sits down near Daphne. “You look well.”

“As well as being trapped in your own home can be.” Which is very well. Theo lives almost as lavishly as Draco does, so it’s not a hardship to be at home all the time. The only thing you worry about is the minimal contact you get from the outside world. You’re almost completely cut off.

Draco decides that this conversation (the awkward blubbering between Theo and Millicent and Pansy’s chattering about nothing) isn’t something he wants to hear. He’s come to like thinking about other things that matter to him but mostly he’s a bit out of practice at being attentive to most gossip. He’s spent a good deal of his Sixth year doing nothing but worry and contemplate. He was only sixteen then. 

Were all burdens so heavy or was it just because he was so young?

As the trains speed along, the clouds begin to gather and heavily pour rain and soon the lights come flickering on. Daphne, Millie and Pansy retreat to another compartment to change into their school robes. Which leaves the men on their own as they change into their robes. There’s a tension between Blaise and Draco. Theo likes to ignore it because he isn’t as close as the both of them are. 

Draco knows why Blaise isn’t exactly happy to see him. Imagine your own best friend hiding things from you, trying to manipulate you into joining their own cause and selfishly flees to the hills, leaving you to fight amongst your own Housemates when things turn for the worse. It doesn’t really give off the best impression.

“Come on, let’s get going. I want to grab the first carriage and be out of this miserable weather.”

It’s the first thing that Blaise says all of their trip to Hogwarts. He shrugs on his robes and pulls the compartment door open.

“The rain’s not letting at all.”

Then he’s gone. Draco doesn’t like knowing that Blaise is ignoring him, or at least, uneasy with him. But he can give the man some space if need be. Theo follows suit and Draco leaves last, shoving his hands deep inside the pockets of his robes.

He feels like a mopey teen all over again. Blaise should know that he had no choice, he was in too deep by the time he realised how out of control it was. He either had to comply or be tortured then fed to the hideous snake the Dark Lord had. Good thing Longbottom killed it, it gave him the creeps whenever it slithered down the Malfoy Manor hallways and fixed its beady little eyes on him.

For some bloody reason, he trips and it made him fall onto the ground of the dirty train floor. He clicks his tongue in both irritation and anger.

“Watch it,” he snaps.

Bright green eyes look up at him in return. Draco instantly regrets ever talking but Potter just dusted himself down and coughed. He looks just the same but tired. His hair is always messy and there are faint grey circles beneath his eyes. He’s flushed up to his ears with what Draco’s going to take as either embarrassment or anger.

He’s also apparently the one who’s been sitting on the dirty train floor.

Draco stands up and hesitates before he offers a hand to Potter. The first time he’s ever done this, he got rejected, of course. But Potter takes it with surprisingly cold hands and staggers as he rights himself. He doesn’t let go. In fact, he grips it pretty tightly.

“Oh, Malfoy,” he talks in a soft voice. “Sorry for tripping you.”

“It’s… it’s alright. I was the one walking, I should’ve seen you.”

“No, no. I shouldn't have been in the middle of the corridor.”

Draco looks down at their joined hands. “Why were you sitting in the middle of the corridor?”

Again the flush rises up. “I, uh, I fell. Haha.”

“You fell?”

“Well, we are in a train after all.”

“A stationary train?”

“... There are lots of things that are trippable.”

“Yeah, like one Harry Potter on the ground like a sitting duck,” Draco raised an eyebrow.

He tightens his grip on Draco’s hand again -- why is he still holding his hand? -- and shrugs. “I’m just clumsy. Must’ve been my own two feet.”

“Right.”

“Well…” Potter trails off, looking out the window. Last time they were in a train together, Draco broke the Gryffindor’s nose and left him on the train to be sent back. Odd that now they have a stilted, but at least polite conversation. “I’ll uh. I’ll get going.”

“Sure,” he nods.

Potter walks away, however, he probably forgot he was holding a hand which is attached to a whole human body. And that human body belongs to a certain Draco Malfoy. 

“Uh, Potter.”

The man looks back and following Draco’s gaze, he finally sees their still conjoined hands. Potter lets it go and stammers. “Sorry, sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

He looks torn between staying to say more and going. At the last minute, when the whistle blows it’s last warning for all passengers to get off, Potter’s made his decision.

“I’ll see you around?”

Draco, stunned, nods back a yes and Potter smiled before he goes off. A churning starts in his stomach, but it isn’t the same churning he felt back at home where it stemmed from his worries. The churning starts because of Harry Potter and he doesn’t know whether he likes it or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank the people who commented -- they really made my day and thank you so much to all the Kudos given as well! Between school and work, I don't have much time for fics but I am trying to work on them as frequently as I can. Sorry if this chapter hasn't been quite there yet but I thought it'd be nice to have the boys join in. Of course, Draco would be expecting Harry being all mean and cold towards him, but really, Harry's just eh about everything atm. 
> 
> Thank you for your support and I hope you enjoy!


	3. It Took One Night

**It Took One Night**

 

“I never knew the walk to the carriages were so long. Has it always been this long?”

Harry’s lungs scream for more air and he’s a little lightheaded after trekking through a soggy uphill climb to get to the Thestrals. Alright, maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration. The ground  _ is _ soggy, but it’s just like any other day after the rain. The hill they walked through wasn’t too steep either. Neither was the walk that long -- it’s actually pretty short.

But Harry struggled a lot.

“Do you need help? I can cast a Featherlight charm on you,” Ron offers.

“No, don’t do that, it’ll conflict with the stasis charm placed on his lungs,” Hermione says.

“Oh right.”

“Well, that’s all good and all, but I don’t think that just talking about the state of my janked lungs will encourage it to give me some more oxygen.”

And damn did his lungs refuse. He’s been a bit anemic these past few months, with not enough red blood cells supporting him. It’s easier for him to tire, to lose strength, to be dizzy and have silly fainting spells. He doesn’t like it when the heat escapes his body and makes him more susceptible to the cold just because his body doesn’t know how to digest food and he’s slowly losing adipose tissue.

He’s slowly losing a lot of things actually.

“We can always just carry you,” Ron suggests. “Between me and Hermione. Easy peasy.”

“Wouldn’t that be really conspicuous to the other students though? Imagine what they’ll say about him once they see this limp boy being carried between his red-headed and bushy-haired friend?”

“Bollocks what they say, Harry obviously needs our help.”

“He’s come so far! I don’t want him to worry over the rumours and stares that they’ll no doubt give him.”

Harry doesn’t think Hermione and Ron realise that they’ve walked five times faster while they’re talking (arguing) about him as if he isn’t there and he’s being left behind because he’s tiring super fast. He stops for a sec, pressing a palm to his frantic heart.

How can it beat so fast, be so  _ active _ and yet be so faint and weak? Stupid death and stupid life. How in the world did he even beat Voldemort after dying, he had no idea. He doesn’t even know where the energy that he maintained after his death came from but his body decided to deteriorate after his final spell.

That’s the other thing about him -- his magic is doing all they can to keep him alive and support the various charms and spells put to stabilise his important organs placed by the Healers. Well, they’re his own personal Healers since he can’t have random Healers being assigned to him on and off.

Along with those Healers, he’s got a team of medical research to try and restore his body -- he doesn’t know how long that’ll take.

Amongst all that work, his magic’s doing its best to try and keep him from keeling over but the Healers had him consume potions that prevented his magic from trying to fix him. Healer Frye, one of the elder ones, didn’t want to risk having his magic destroy him from the inside in the attempt of healing.

Really, you’d thought that magic can solve everything but of course Harry had to go and do something which magic supposedly can’t do.

“Merlin, why are you all the way back here?” Ron grabs his arm and starts to haul him to the carriages carefully. Hermione tutted but didn’t push her point any further, only supporting his other side. Thank God for their timing too, Harry had a feeling he would’ve fallen down in that patch of mud then and there.

He just can’t wait until he can sit down. Being sick isn’t as great as those students who faked it made it seem. He should just live in the infirmary from now on. Leaning his head against Ron’s shoulder, Harry walks to the carriages where they’ll take him back to the first home he’s ever known.

* * *

The Great Hall has always been magnificent with its enchanted ceiling, bright, flickering lights and various portraits hung up along the walls. There are the four long tables for each Houses and a similar table (albeit slightly shorter, only by a few inches or so) at the head of the Hall for the teachers.

There isn’t a speck out of line, everything in the Great Hall looks exactly like every other year that Harry’s been in. It looks just like a normal dinner in Hogwarts and somehow, that manages to put Harry in an awful mood.

He tries not to show it; he stays quiet while pretending to listen to whoever talks to him, keeping his head down and smiles when somebody greets him. But he doesn’t talk. He’s not sure he can without sounding extremely sour.

Embedded in these walls were the echoes of lives that have been lost and a downfall that looked more hideous that Peter Pettigrew’s left toe. And his left toe was pretty yuck. Harry didn’t know why he couldn’t be more happy about being in Hogwarts again. He had been pretty excited too, so why is he feeling so bad about just sitting on the Gryffindor table with the joyous chatter that’s far from the hushed whispers of fear that resided when Voldemort was still alive?

A vicious nudge came to his right side, which is bruising nicely from the collision with Malfoy earlier on the train. In Harry’s defence, he  _ did _ fall over. Just not because of anything but his own inability to support himself for long periods of time. Harry’s just about to snap at whoever poked him with their pointy elbows (it’s Seamus) when the doors opened wide.

The loud chatters became subdued as the First years filed in between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff table. 

“I wasn’t  _ that _ small when I came here, was I?” somebody remarks. 

Harry has to agree. Who knew eleven-year-olds are so little? Some of their robes, though they must have been fitted, still looks too big for their small frames. The robes pool at their feet and swept the floor as they shuffled towards the front of the Hall where McGonagall stands tall with her pointy hat. 

Another hat was brought out, but it’s the Sorting Hat this time.

He knows the drill, he claps when they’re Sorted and cheers harder when they get Sorted into his own House. Other than that, he tunes out everything that happens onwards because his brain is both too loud and too silent.

Seeing these kids set their foot in what was once a battlefield irks him. It makes his skin itch and his limbs tingle. Actually, just sitting here has been making him feel this way, it’s just intensified when he sees fresh, innocent blood being brought into a place of danger and destruction.

_ There’s no more danger, _ he tries to calm himself.  _ The danger has passed, I’ve killed him myself. No more lunatics. _

He wants to sleep this feeling off because it isn’t helping him enjoy his first day back at Hogwarts. The silence in his brain disallow him from hearing his surroundings properly, they’re like white noise that buzzes in the background while there’s a crashing wave in his head. But he can’t hear it. Everything is so muted.

So he stares up at the candles above. They’re quite lovely, really. So kind of them to illuminate their night like this and make it beautiful to watch. He remembers wondering where all the melted wax goes and what would happen if they dropped into the food at the feast, but he learns that it’s magic. It doesn’t follow normal rules.

“Whack,” he lets out softly.

“Welcome back, students and teachers,” Headmistress McGonagall announces, distracting Harry from his observation. “First, I would like to mention the new addition to our school staff this year; Professor Adler, who will be teaching Defence of the Dark Arts.”

Harry expected more menacing-looking men for a second before a short and stout woman stands up and smiles cheerfully out to the Hall. She had braided dark hair and equally dark eyes, but she looks very nice. Like if Professor Sprout had been a DADA teacher instead of being a Herbology teacher.

“And please welcome Professor Hubris, who will be assisting us in Potions.”

Professor Hubris is scarily similar to Snape not in his looks, but in the way he carried himself. Standing tall, peering down his nose at the students like they’re some sort of bad smell and hands behind his back. Snape stands  _ exactly _ the same way and it drives Harry mad.

Mad with something that isn’t quite grief nor anger -- more like just memories and things that could have been. Longing and deep hurt by seeing someone’s shadow in another person. Harry hates seeing these similarities, yet he wants to see more. He wants to hang onto them as if his life depends on it.

Harry averts his eyes from the front and looks at the grains on the large dining table. They run from one end of the sturdy wood to the other end, creating tiny little indents and crevices. But it’s still the same wood. The same table. He hates it.

It feels so suffocating to be back in Hogwarts and he wonders why he isn’t more excited and relieved at being back to his first home. Does he not belong anymore? Is this some twisted way to drive any sense of normalcy out from his life?

Wild applause erupts and Harry snaps himself out of his stupor. He looks back up the front of the Hall and starts to applause as well.

_ I should be grateful that I got to see Hogwarts for another day. But do I really want to see it now? _

If his hands begin to shake, his palms becoming clammy and the hairs at the back of his neck prickle seeing all the food laid out before him, then nobody has to know but himself.

* * *

Did you know that the corridors in Hogwarts are dastardly cold at night? And it’s only September. He doesn’t remember early Septembers being this cold. Or maybe it’s because he’s not good at insulating his body heat any more and he's not allowed to place Heating charms or temperature regulating charms on himself (not that he knows how to but Hermione does).

Christ, he hates this numb coldness in his hands and feet. It feels too much like being cold when Horcrux hunting all over again.

Hermione takes his hand in between hers. He looks up at her, a little puzzled, but she just smiles and keeps walking beside him.

“I don’t think you expect many people to notice, you’re very good at keeping personal troubles all inside that little heart of yours, but I always see you rubbing your hands together like it’s the middle of winter already. My hands aren’t the warmest, but it’s better than yours.”

“Oh, really?” he says, but squeezes her hands. “They’re a lovely temperature. Thanks.”

“Least I could do. And easiest, too. Don’t expect me to lug you around when you get tired, I’m not strong enough.”

A small laugh bubbles out from him. “Yeah. I’ll let Ron do that.”

“Strong boy.”

“Like Hagrid.”

“No, never. Hagrid is a whole other type of strong.”

“Of course,” he agrees. “Where  _ is _ Ron, by the way?”

Hermione shrugs and clenches her hand, which has his hand in them. “I think he went off to do something with Ginny? I’m not sure. Oh, maybe he went to do something with Neville? No idea. I’m not too bothered about it.”

“Okay.”

The walk to their new dormitories took longer than going to the Ravenclaw dorms, but shorter than going to the Gryffindor’s, which he’s silently glad for. He didn’t think he could climb that many stairs and who knows how many times he has to backtrack from the occasional wrong turn due to the moving staircases. He’s not willing to bet anything on it.

Hermione said that she wasn’t strong enough to lug Harry around and he told himself he wouldn’t burden her like that, but by the third staircase, Harry leans extremely heavily on Hermione for support and she’s clearly struggling to hold him up. It makes him frustrated that he can’t even stand on his own two feet and having to weigh down (literally) his friend like this.

He tries to stand up by himself. He’s so pitiful, not having a working body. It makes him ashamed, no matter how irrational it might be. He used to be a pillar, even if a little one. Now he’s reduced to this… this mess. And it’s humiliating.

“I don’t think I can carry you anymore, Harry,” Hermione huffs, leaning Harry in an alcove. “I’m so sorry. We can wait here until someone comes by or until Ron comes by, but I’m really tired.”

“Hey,” Harry soothes her, sliding down the stone pillar and sits on the ground for the second time that day, “it’s fine. I’ll stay here for a while, you can go to the dorms. I wanted to get some fresh air anyways.” That’s a lie, but he supposes a little setback wouldn’t work. “And I can always cast my Patronus to carry out a message, yeah? I’ll be fine.”

“No, I think I should wait for you.”

“Hermione.”

“Harry.”

“Come on,” he eggs her. “I… I need some alone time, too. I don’t think I can get it with all those people inside the Common room. This is perfect, really.”

She kneels to where Harry sits on the ground. “I’ll get Ron.”

“Actually,” Harry pipes up. “It’d be easier if you gave me a Blood-replenishing potion. I downed my last one during the trip here and the rest are in my trunk. You could get those instead? It’s nearer and faster.

“Of course! Why didn’t  _ I _ think of that,” she looks frazzled, hands on her hips. “Smart boy. Stay here while I get it, okay?”

Harry gives her a weak laugh, a bit breathless with the lack of oxygen in his lungs, and leans his head on the wall. “Okay.”

“I’ll be back in a while,” she cards her fingers through Harry’s hair and pats his head. Then she goes ahead to their new living quarters. Harry lets out a heavy breath and pulls his knees up from where he sits.

He’s such a bother to everyone around him. So fragile and weak, just another burden after a war. Guilt festers in his stomach and threatens to choke him. Look at Hermione, look at Ron. They’re so strong and they’re free from the horrors of Voldemort, they’re allowed to do whatever they please with their time. But Harry just  _ has _ to ruin it for them and be all pathetic, frail and useless. It’s infuriating.

But he knows his friends wouldn’t stop taking care of him anyways. They’ve always looked out for each other and having a sick Harry is definitely a big step down from an energised but hunted Harry. If Hermione and Ron stuck with Harry since the day they almost  _ died _ for him, then this would be easy peasy. Just feed him some potions and he’ll be fine until the next round of potions. 

Harry isn’t blind, he doesn’t think of his friends so lowly as if to expect them to turn their backs on him the minute the war ends. He trusts them to be there for him, no second guessing. Because who was Harry Potter without his lovely, brave friends; Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger? He’d just be a stumbling fool.

If their positions had been reversed, Harry would’ve done the same.

He pulls out a little block of chocolate from his robe pocket -- Remus’ favourite -- and begins to nibble on the edges. He likes to think the chocolate helps him when really he knows it isn’t. It’s more of a placebo effect, but that’s better than nothing. It also gives him something to do.

Hermione comes back a few minutes later with the familiar vial of Blood-replenishing Potion.

“I think you’re going to need a refill by next month or so,” she says as she crouches down and unstoppers the pipette. “There’s about half left in here.”

“Yeah, I know. I poured some of it into the smaller tubes they gave me. It’s easier than carrying that bottle around. I’m getting a refill in a few weeks anyways. It’ll come through Madam Pomfrey instead of the usual mail.”

“Alright. Open wide,” she tells him. Harry huffs.

“I can do it myself, ‘Mione.”

“Come on, Harry. No complaints. The faster the potion goes in you, the faster we’ll get back and you can recuperate. The common room is  _ really _ nice and cosy. Doesn’t that tempt you?”

With one last huff, Harry petulantly opens his mouth. Hermione lifts the end of the pipette and squeezes out three hefty drops. He doesn’t need much for now. He takes them in small doses so his heart doesn’t suddenly combust through the change of his deoxygenated healthy blood count that needed to be oxygenated again. He’s heard this lecture once from the Healer when he proposes he just downs a lot of them at once.

Turns out, the potion doesn’t duplicate your already oxygenated blood. The one he was given promotes his body to produce more iron so the hemoglobin in his body is upped. But for some reason, his red blood cells keep on dying no matter how much he drinks the horrible tasting potion. He takes three drops, but he takes them often throughout the day to be able to keep up with physical activity.

The Healers said that it might be some sort of aplastic anemia -- Harry’s surprised that magical people also use Muggle terms before he found out that simple things like this needn’t new labels cause they were all still human in the end -- where the soft tissue in the centre of the bones doesn’t produce enough blood cells.

But they said that even though they don’t know why it happens (just another abnormality in human bodies) it’s usually inherited or acquired. The Healers ruled out inherited pretty quickly, looking at his parent’s medical records. So they opted that it was acquired when his body stopped taking in oxygen. He  _ had _ been lucky to barely scrape the start of the decomposition process. A few more minutes and his body would have started decaying.

But for now, Harry’s just cruising along this state of being weak and bruising easily. They said these were the symptoms of aplastic anemia when it gets from bad to worse so it’s nice to know that Harry jumped to worse straight away.

He feels the potion kicking in and he gets even more dizzy, closing his eyes and resting his head against his folded hands atop his knees. Hermione strokes his hair back from his ears again and sitting next to him while he waits for the potion to fully settle. It’s always a shock when they take in effect. The potions work really fast.

“I think Ron and Ginny are doing some catching up,” she says quietly. “They lost a brother and they’re most likely in the south area of the castle where…”

She needn’t say any more, he knows where that is. That’s where Fred fought valiantly and fell to protect his twin brother and family. He understands the need for Ginny and Ron to get closure. He thinks it’s incredibly brave and strong of them to confront that. Harry likes to evade because he’s a bit of a coward.

“But he’s coming back soon, most likely with treats from the kitchens.” she pats his back with two short taps.

Harry gives a small huff of a laugh and then made to stand up on his two feet. He feels better, though there’s always the small discomfort that lays with him. It’s weird because he doesn’t get dreams at night. No nightmares like when Voldemort’s soul had been attached to him. 

Man, Voldemort was just a swell guy, wasn’t he? But it’s very peculiar that he doesn’t even have good dreams. It’s like his brain blacks out and then suddenly, it’s morning again and his watch is beeping for him to get up and go through with the day (Neville showed him a Tempus charm that would work with his analog watch and become a small alarm when the clockwork strikes a certain time). 

Both Hermione and he set off to the common room, but this time, Harry’s walking on his own two feet.

The common room is nice and warm and cosy, just like what Hermione said, but it’s also loud and a little crowded. Of course, they stuffed all the remaining Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws, Gryffindors and Slytherins from their own year into the same area, so of course, it’s crowded. 

The room itself is nice, with spacious floors and overstuffed seats; a roaring hearth of fire like any other common rooms; a wall dedicated to bookshelves and a few desks for students to study or play. There’s even a small chess set where two students have already occupied.

He doesn’t know whether he likes it or not.

“I’m going to go and lay down.”

“Okay, you can just look at the doors for your roommate’s name and your own.” Hermione pats his arm and leaves him be, sitting with a girl who Harry didn’t recognise.

_ The name’s on the door, huh? _ Harry walks through a corridor with four doors, two on each side, facing opposite of each other. He sees a shiny new square plaque on the wooden doors. It’s easy enough to spot his name. He’s to be roomed with five other boys (just like any other year). He doesn’t even bother reading the rest of the names after coming across a Nikolaj Hoffman, which was an unfamiliar name, and claims his bed.

He sheds out of his uniform and casts both a Silencing charm and a Sticking charm on his curtains so nobody opens them while he’s asleep and falls on the bed, staring at the dark canopies above him. Hot tears slid down his face and onto the pillows before he closes his eyes, feeling the heavy weight of sleep pull him in.

He realises it took him one night to instantly reject his very own home and break down.

* * *

A weary sigh escapes pale lips as he opens the door to his room. He loosens his tie, already missing the safe confines of his own home -- no matter how stifling he first thought it was. It was nothing compared to being subjected to poorly masked -- or outright -- hostility and despise. He’s glad that most of his dorm mates seem to be people who wouldn’t try to set his bed on fire whilst he sleeps.

He notices a bed with their curtains already drawn shut. Somebody’s already here and turned in for the night, missing out on the kerfuffle in the common room. How pleasant.

Of course, it’s a little weird that he would be sleeping in the same room as Harry Potter. No doubt Potter wouldn’t try to do things like castrating him -- too noble. He knows the rest wouldn’t either; he doubts that Hufflepuff would and he knows Hoffman’s a Slytherin. 

Taking the bed opposite the one which was occupied, Draco sits down and begins to untie the laces of his shoes.

He wonders if he made the right choice by coming to Hogwarts again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very sorry for the slow updates!!! I'm currently in my busiest semester yet at college and work it also hindering me to work on this fic (or any other fics) very often. I want to thank all those who commented and gave this fic a chance, it really warms my heart!
> 
> This fic was actually already pre-written as another fic called 'Beyond the Veil' that I had also already uploaded, but I hated the storyline that I created so I took it down. I'm now starting from scratch, but using the same ideas and conceptions; so if you feel like you've read this somewhere, you probably have! Only 'Beyond the Veil' was originally more about Draco.
> 
> Thank you all for your support; I hope you enjoyed this chapter though it isn't very exciting. More of an insight on Harry. Draco and Harry will be encountering each other more often throughout the fic and will learn to get to know each other. I look forward to meeting you guys again on the next chapter!
> 
> L.O.L (lots of love),  
> Snaxarba <3


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